


Time's Arrow

by littlerhymes



Category: Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 16:29:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlerhymes/pseuds/littlerhymes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dickon returns from the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time's Arrow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hesychasm (Jintian)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jintian/gifts).



> Thank you to my awesome beta reader, proteinscollide!

Dickon arrives at Misselthwaite station, stepping out of the train carriage crowded with returning soldiers and into the clean morning air. He's expecting perhaps his mother or one of his sisters to be waiting for him, but instead is greeted with an armful of both and his brother Jack to boot.

"Dickon!" Elizabeth Ellen cries, and flings her arms around him. Mother dries her tears before taking his arm in his, Jack grabbing his bags before he can say a word, and then he's swept along with the Sowerbys into the street, where he finds another unexpected welcome. There's a gleaming motor-car waiting and standing beside it is Mary, and his heart jumps a little at the sight of her, so bonny and so glad.

She smiles at him fit to burst, and impulsively jabs at the steering wheel, which emits a cheery little toot. "Dickon, I learnt how to drive!" Then she too is laughing, falling into his arms and for a moment, in the bright of day before all of Misselthwaite, they hold one another as tight as they dare. Only a moment - and if he holds the embrace a breath longer than he should, well, everyone knows Miss Mary and the Sowerby boy grew up thick as thieves, and who'd blame him for high spirits on a homecoming day like this?

She drives them back to the cottage on the moor, everyone crammed in together and chatting merrily away; Dickon doesn't have to say much at all. Mary's the other who doesn't talk much, her attention on the road, though she glances over from time to time, and her warm looks are good as sunlight on his skin.

At the cottage, his other brothers run out to greet him, and inside they find his little sister Anne taking fresh-baked scones from the oven and brewing a pot of strong hot tea. He's fussed over again and made to sit in a chair by the hearth, not to lift a finger. They're enjoying the experience of spoiling him, he knows, but it makes him thoughtful. Before the war he'd prided himself that his vegetable garden and odd jobs about the village, second only to Martha's wages, that had kept the Sowerbys afloat. He realises now that all the while he wondered how they'd cope without him, they had more than made do.

He's shaken out of introspection soon enough - for they ask him about the war, of course, questions he deflects as gently as he can. He truthfully protests that he'd rather hear about the dog's new litter of puppies, or the pageant at the village school, and is relieved when they relent. Mary, who stays quiet until the conversation turns to easier topics, squeezes his hand comfortingly beneath the table before rising to help lay the plates.

To his surprise Mary seems quite at home - she makes her way about the kitchen with sure hands, reaching here for the spoons and there for the plates without any hesitation. He's glad to know she's been keeping company with his mother and sisters; and again he wonders what else he might have missed in those long stretches between letters and infrequent leave, how much lost time he has to catch up on.

The meal draws to a close when Elizabeth Ellen pushes back her chair. "I'm on at the post office today," she explains, cramming a smart little hat over her curls. She drops a kiss on his cheek on her way to the door. "I'll be back for tea, don't you fret!"

"She's a clever girl, our Elizabeth Ellen," Mother says with quiet pride, as she rises to clear the table. "She fair runs the place, now Mr Nelson's getting on in years. There's been some have had it rough in Misselthwaite in recent times, but between our Elizabeth Ellen and our Martha's wages, and our Jack about the house and the garden, we've not wanted for much."

"Aye, I can well believe it," Dickon says, admiring and shaking his head at the little sister and brother he could swear had been in pinafores and short trousers when he left, now all grown and capable. He starts to say, lightly, _seems I've not been missed_ , when the full truth of it strikes him abruptly. He wasn't the only Misselthwaite boy who'd returned from the trenches - there are extra mouths to feed under more roofs than this in the village, and perhaps not enough work to go around. He'll start knocking doors tomorrow, Dickon decides; there's no point delaying.

His thoughts are interrupted when Mary's hand closes over his where it lies on the cheery, much-mended tablecloth. "You'll come back to the house with me?" she says. "Colin's not back from Cambridge until next week, I'm afraid, but Martha and Ben will be glad to see you. And you needn't worry about the time, I'll drive you back for your tea."

"Is that to be a favour to you or me, I wonder?" he says, teasing - she loves to drive, he knows that now, she confessed as much over her second scone. She laughs and doesn't refute the charge.

Mary drives him back to Misselthwaite, taking all the turns a little too fast, wind whipping at her hair, and Dickon forgets to watch the road.

* * *

He'd meant to see Martha first but as they pull up into the drive they're unexpectedly hailed by Mr Craven, walking through the grounds.

"Welcome home, and well done," Mr Craven says, shaking his hand with a rare effusiveness. In appearance he's not changed much, though there's more gray in his hair and he leans heavily on his silver-handled cane; and he's a far cry from the unhappy, reclusive figure of Dickon's boyhood.

He insists on inviting Dickon to the library for tea. "I've an interest in military history, as you may know, and we've all been following news of your division very closely," Mr Craven continues. "It would be an honour if you'd share some stories of your time on the front with me and Mary."

"Of course, sir," Dickon says, dragging up the semblance of enthusiasm. "The honour's mine." An honour he'd rather avoid, in truth, and he follows Mary and Mr Craven down the hallways with a rising sense of dread.

Most of the days of his service run together in a blur, which Dickon's thankful for; and what he does remember, in brief but all too vivid flashes, he'd often rather forget. There's no joy in recalling the time he cradled a dying horse's head in his lap, while the blood ran wet and thick over his arms. Turning over the body of an enemy soldier with his boot, to find a pale-faced boy who looked no more than Jack's age, chest splattered from the bullet Dickon had fired only moments before.

 _Strategy?_ he wants to say when Mr Craven asks the question. _There was none, except to count how many of your fellows were dead by nightfall, and to hope you weren't among them._

But those aren't the type of stories to be told in a stately library to an old man who only means well, so Dickon smiles and nods and says what he's learned to say. He rubs at the bridge of his nose, sensing a headache threatening behind his eyes, and hopes it passes for weariness of the body rather than the mind.

Mary, glancing over, interjects, "Didn't you call for tea, Uncle? Shall we see if it's ready?"

Dickon sighs with momentary relief when the door opens and a housemaid enters with a tray of tea things - only to realise that the maid is Martha. He rises hurriedly to his feet and then stops, unsure whether to step forward or hold back.

Martha, though startled, keeps her wits together enough to set the tray down with only a brief, restrained smile in Dickon's direction, before bobbing a curtsy to Mr Craven. "I'm sorry, sir," Martha says, "I didn't realise my brother would be here today. Dickon," she says, in a lower voice, "I'll see you later, then."

Without waiting for a reply, Martha leaves the room, shutting it closed behind her with a quiet click. Mr Craven looks bemused; Dickon sinks back into his chair; and Mary, setting her shoulders, starts to pour the tea.

After tea, Mary and Dickon walk in the gardens. The light has faded and it's turned very cold now; Mary slips her arm through his, their arms and sides warming where they touch.

"I'm sorry, Dickon," Mary says as they turn into the long walk lined with firs. "It's only that Uncle Archie is so very proud of you and he does love hearing all the details. He could never serve himself, you see..."

"Aye, well," Dickon says. "It's of no matter. I know he meant well. He's a good man, your uncle."

They reach the end of the walk and stop. Mary unthreads her arm from his and turns to face him, their gloved hands clasped. "And I'm sorry about Martha too, that was awful for both of you."

"No, you've naught to apologise for," he says stoutly.

"Yes, but I didn't realise," she says, screwing her face up a little as she tries to explain. "It's been so different for me since the war began, I've done so much in the village and at the hospital. Things that people wouldn't have approved of, before. Even Uncle Archie doesn't mind now that I'm driving myself here, there, and everywhere. I thought that, well, now that the war is over..."

"You thought things had changed?" Dickon says. "That everything would be different."

"Something like that, yes. That things would be different _enough_." Mary steps back, pulling him with her towards the door in the wall - of course, he thinks, they were heading there all along. "Come on."

They step inside.

* * *

The leaves dropped long ago and the earth is frozen hard, but even now the garden is a place that's beautiful in Dickon's eyes, and for the first time since he stepped off the train he feels a real easing in his chest.

He sees both the garden as it is, and as it will be - for the bare branches will bud and bloom in time, and the birds will sing. Lifeless-seeming bulbs and seeds will unfold, covering the ground in colours, springing upwards into limber saplings and towering trees. Here in the garden, where he and Mary and Colin made Magic work and all things seemed possible, here's where the world makes sense.

"I wish everywhere was like the garden," Mary says, echoing his thoughts uncannily. "I wish the world was a garden."

"Aye," Dickon says. "But there's still time."

They're still holding hands and it only take a step to bring them close; he's not sure if it's her step or his. "I missed you," Mary says, and she kisses him softly, first to the left, then to the right of his mouth, before he brings their lips together.

In the spring before Dickon left for the front, after Colin had left for school, they'd met here time and time again. Outside the garden they could be no more than childhood friends, a young lady and a farmboy; inside the rose-hung walls, they were something more.

They'd started with kisses, clumsy though sweet. They grew practised through diligent, daily attention, until that wasn't enough to satisfy them any longer. At first Mary had been the bolder one, curious and eager to guide his hands to her breasts, under her skirts and between her legs. She'd laughed at his blushes and kissed him softly, coaxingly, as she undid each button on his shirt, then his breeches.

He'd been the one, finally, after an afternoon of such delicious, shivery exploration, who had laid her down on the green grass, kissing each soft exposed part of her and saying, _please, please_ , only to realise she was hungry for this as he.

In time the season passed, too quickly, and at its end Dickon came of age - old enough to enlist. It seemed to him and many others like a noble and courageous calling, which he couldn't in good conscience refuse. There had never really been any doubt in his mind that he would sign up for duty as soon as he was able; or Mary's, either.

The day before he left, they met in the garden and kissed for what felt like hours. He'd tasted her mouth over and again till his lips felt bruised, his hands moving over her body until he could feel her shaking with a want that matched his own. Mary squirmed in his lap, turning so she straddled his thighs, her skirts bunching up between their bodies. She reached down to free him from his breeches and stroked him to hardness, and then he was gripping her waist, fingers digging into her hips, as she lowered herself onto him. Lower, and lower, with agonising slowness until he was inside her to the hilt; and then she lifted her hips, making him gasp, before sinking down again.

She rode him slowly and carefully until he couldn't bear it any longer, rolling them over so she lay beneath him. He braced himself against the grass as she wound her legs up and around the back of his thighs, matching him move for move, breath for breath, urging him on wordlessly until he had spent himself with a cry. Still joined, he dipped his mouth to hers again, not wanting to forget any of this. Her fingers twined possessively in the curls at the base of his neck as she kissed him back.

The next day he was gone.

On those infrequent occasions during the war when Dickon permitted himself to dream, and those were rare indeed, he had found himself entertaining the idea that he'd return to Misselthwaite not as a simple footsoldier, but a captain - a hero, even. That Mary would take his hand before the eyes of one and all, with nobody remarking on the occurrence in the slightest; and Mr Craven would welcome him into his home not as a guest, but as family, a second son to his shining, brilliant Colin.

A dream indeed. The moment that Mary had stepped into his arms at the station, and then stepped away again ever so carefully, he had remembered and rued it for the fancy that it was. Only here, in the garden once again...

This time it's too cold to do much more than hold one another, her arms around his neck, his hands slipping under her coat to link at the small of her back.

"How long do we have?" she says, laying her head against the lapel of his army greatcoat. Her hair smells like soap and snow.

"Martha has a break soon."

She sighs. "We'll start back for the house in a moment then."

So they have a moment. It's not long enough to change the world, he knows, but he finds himself strangely hopeful - for there will be other days, other seasons. The winter must yield to spring, for it always does, the oldest Magic of all.

They'll start it right here, in the garden. They'll watch it grow.


End file.
